comin 2 gt u Read online

  Things took a turn for the worse when I asked him what I thought was a perfectly innocent question: ‘You said you were from Shoreditch, Sharky. That’s in the East End, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not bleedin’ Mayfair.’

  ‘Me and my mum were there in ’41.’

  ‘I thought you was a Brighton lad.’

  ‘I am. We only went up for the day.’

  His eyebrows moved even closer together. ‘What, like trippers you mean?’

  I told him we’d wanted to see the Blitz damage for ourselves; how a friendly shopkeeper had directed us to the worst scenes of devastation; how shocked we’d been by the rows of houses with their fronts blown clean off, the huge craters in the middle of the road and the dreadful smell of burning.

  ‘Ruin your holiday, did it?’

  I tried to protest, but he grabbed me by the collar and lifted me clean out of my seat. ‘You thought you’d come and do a bit of sightseeing, didn’t yer? I ought to knock your block off.’

  And that’s exactly what he would have done, had not a disembodied voice stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  Sharky hesitated, his fist hovering above me like the sword of Damocles.

  The News Chronicle in the corner appeared to have developed the power of speech. ‘I said, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not unless you want a murder on your conscience.’

  Sharky relaxed his fist. ‘Murder? What do you mean murder?’

  The chap in the corner lowered his newspaper, revealing a youthful countenance and an unusually voluminous pair of ears. ‘That man has psychotalclapsica.’

  ‘Hang on a tick, Professor,’ said Sharky. ‘Psychotalwhatsica?’

  ‘A very serious condition,’ continued the man with The Chronicle. ‘One blow to the cranium is all it would take.’

  Sharky looked doubtful. ‘You a doctor or something?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said the young chap, reaching into his pocket for a packet of boiled sweets, ‘but I know enough about physiognomy to realise what a risk you’re taking.’

  ‘Answer me this then, Professor,’ said Sharky. ‘If he’s got the dreaded lurgie, how come he’s off to do his bit? HMS Raleigh ain’t going to be no holiday camp, you know.’

  ‘Same reason as you and me, I should think. He’s just got his call-up papers. I daresay with his condition he could have wangled himself a cushy desk job, but he didn’t, did he? I’d say that makes him a bit of a hero, wouldn’t you?’

  I was so grateful I could almost have hugged him.

  ‘All right,’ said Sharky, still not looking entirely convinced, ‘just this once, I’ll let you off.’ An angry King Kong became the friendly face at the window again. ‘Looks like we’ll be shipmates, Professor; what’s your name anyway?’

  ‘It’s Tommy,’ said my jug-eared protector. ‘Tommy Riley.’

  8.00 p.m.

  The Mission: Impossible theme took a sledgehammer to the silence. Mum looked up grumpily from her notes. ‘Aren’t you going to answer that, Samuel? It might be your father.’

  ‘It’s only a text,’ I said, sliding to the other end of the sofa, and scrolling through the menu, ‘so it can’t be Dad because he doesn’t even know how to send one.’

  Mum looked disappointed. ‘Who’s it from then?’

  I glanced down at the message, trying to shield it from her whilst surreptitiously storing the number. ‘Oh . . . no one.’

  Mum morphed into Child Psychiatrist Person. ‘What do you mean exactly by no one?’

  ‘Well, you know . . . ’ I said, swiftly returning the mobile to my pocket and trying to suppress the shiver in my voice. ‘Just some random guy.’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ said Mum, giving me one of the special smiles she saved for when I wrote something mushy in her Mothers’ Day card or Dad gave me the money to buy her a bunch of flowers.

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, Sam. I know exactly what’s going on.’

  It was almost a relief. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, and I think it’s really sweet.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘My little boy’s got a girlfriend. I’m right, aren’t I?’ Mum gazed at my eight-year-old self on the mantelpiece, complete with Harry Potter glasses and the scar she drew with a felt tip. She’d got the exact same photo in her office; it was a miracle she didn’t get fed up with it. ‘My mother was right,’ she said dreamily. ‘Kids do grow up too fast.’

  ‘No, Mum, you don’t under—’ And I was just about to reassure her that I found the opposite sex about as interesting as a garden centre, when I suddenly realised that I’d rather she believed her ‘little boy’ had a girlfriend than that he was scared and unhappy and hadn’t a clue how to handle it. ‘I mean, it’s no big deal, is it?’

  ‘Not to you maybe,’ she sniffed. ‘But you needn’t worry, Sammy, I won’t give you a hard time about it.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  She fiddled with her papers, drummed on the coffee table and whistled the theme tune from Casualty. ‘Aren’t you going to text her back then?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’ve got to read some more of this. I’ll do it later.’

  ‘Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen, eh? Just like your dad.’

  Everyone in my family seemed to be some kind of a hero – everyone except, me that is. My great-granddad fought in the trenches, Dad was a semi-professional Hardman, and Granddad even had a war wound. I tried to concentrate on his story, hoping that perhaps some of his bravery would rub off on me, but all I could see was a load of squiggly lines, like that painting Mum was so keen on in the Tate Modern.

  What was the point? My mind kept wandering back to my mobile. And although I pretended to carry on reading for Mum’s benefit, it was only to put off the fateful moment when I’d have to go upstairs and there would be nothing to stop me rereading that terrible text.

  9.25 p.m.

  ‘Come on, love; I’m sure your granddad’s life history is all very interesting – not! But you really should go up and get ready for bed. I know you’re dying to phone your new girlfriend.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Of course you do. Faint heart never won fair lady, Sammy.’

  ‘OK then,’ I said, wracking my brains for another reason not be left alone with my mobile. ‘Oh and Mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No one does that “not” thing any more.’

  ‘Well, pardon me for being such an embarrassment.’

  She’d spent the last hour rearranging her notes on the coffee table. It reminded me of that thing Granddad had once said about people rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic as it went down.

  ‘How’s that difficult case of yours? Have you worked it out yet, Mum?’

  ‘Not really. It’ll be one of the three Ds, of course – drink, daddies and divorce – but I’ve never seen a child so full of hate. I just wish I could help.’

  ‘Here, why don’t you let me have a look?’

  ‘No,’ she said, gathering her papers into a pile like a gambler collecting his winnings, ‘you mustn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just . . . because. Now hurry up and get a move on.’

  I headed reluctantly for the door. ‘Mum?’

  ‘What is it, love? Is something the matter?’

  ‘It’s just . . . ’ It was no good; I couldn’t tell her. She got so upset when she thought I was unhappy. ‘ . . . I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, you soppy thing. But it’s still bedtime, Sammy, so get up those stairs!’

  I didn’t see them at first. I was too busy trying not to think about that text. But when I looked out at the bus shelter, I got the shock of my life.

  They haven’t . . . have they?

  The feeling that I was being watched grew stronger with every step towards my bedroom window. Five droopy yellow eyes, weeping sticky tears and shattered eggshells, were staring in at me, following me around
the room like Big Brother. Unless Mr Fox had learned to throw, he was probably in the clear.

  I yanked closed the curtains, trying to pretend that the glutinous concoction of broken eggs sliding down my windowpane wasn’t there. It wasn’t the only thing I was doing my best to forget about. How much longer could I keep it up? Sooner or later, I’d have to bite the bullet.

  I padded around my bedroom like a caged animal, tearing the last three days off my Far Side calendar, strumming every chord I knew on the guitar (E minor and A minor), and pausing to admire the original Star Wars poster that Dad had bought me in Greenwich market, before logging onto the laptop and Googling HMS Belfast – anything to avoid getting out my mobile.

  The virtual tour was actually pretty cool, but after a couple of minutes exploring the lower decks (you could even go right down to the engine rooms), I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. Gritting my teeth, I reached for the Dad Phone and went straight to my inbox.

  Ever been so desperate for something not to be true that you kind of convinced yourself it was a mistake, even though it couldn’t be? When the specialist told him what was wrong with Nanny, Granddad said he’d managed to pretend it was just a ‘gippy tummy’ for weeks. And there I was, vainly hoping that I’d misread it, or started hallucinating even – like Dad after his first double marathon.

  But I couldn’t ignore the evidence of my own eyes. It was right there, in black and white, just as I’d remembered it.

  Check out www.chickenboyz.com

  With hate – The Emperor

  10.30 p.m.

  Ever stood at the top of a cliff and half wanted to throw yourself off? That’s what it felt like; only this time, instead of stepping back from the precipice, I knew that – even if I spent another twenty minutes staring at my Grade Three clarinet certificate – sooner or later, I’d have to jump.

  I typed in the address and prepared myself for the worst.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was far worse than anything I could possibly have imagined. At first, all you heard was the music – it was that ‘Birdie Song’ Mum and Dad had done a really embarrassing dance to at Auntie Deb’s wedding – and then a flash animation of a person in a chicken suit waddled across the screen shaking its butt at you like Baloo the Bear. Everyone in Year Eight was into flash animation. The boys used it to make films of random acts of violence and the girls did cartoon frogs sticking their tongues out to catch flies.

  And I was almost enjoying it until the chicken turned round and I saw that he was carrying a clarinet case. On the side, in graffiti-style lettering, were the words, Click on my beak to see the dumbest kid in Year Eight.

  I held my breath; reaching for the mouse with a cold, clammy hand.

  ‘Oh no,’ I whispered. ‘It can’t be?’

  There in the top left-hand corner of the home page was a picture of me, trying to do the Fosbury Flop. I’d hated that PE lesson. I mean, why would anyone try to jump over something backwards? No wonder I’d kept knocking the bar off.

  But there was worse to come – much worse. Underneath the photograph was:

  THE EMPEROR’S BLOG

  Hi. Welcome to a cool new website dedicated to Sam Tennant, aka Chickenboy, aka the most pathetic kid at St Thomas’s Community College. If you hate and despise him half as much as we do, then this is the site for you. And remember to tell all your friends. If you want to be ahead of the game, why not sign up for regular ‘Chickenboyz’ updates to your mobile.

  Enjoy!

  PS: If you really want to see some fun, don’t forget your HMS Belfast money on Monday. You can run, Sam, but you can’t hide!

  So it was true then, I couldn’t deny it any longer – someone at school actually hated me. No, not just one person, two at least – on the other side of the page was a column entitled:

  FIVE REALLY GAY THINGS ABOUT SAM TENNANT

  by Ollyg78

  1. He thinks he’s really funny but he’s not.

  2. He likes crap music. (Ask Chickenboy what’s on his iPod!)

  3. He smells of chicken poo.

  4. His mum smells of chicken poo.

  5. He’s a scaredy little chicken who deserves everything he gets.

  I thought I was going to be sick. How could anyone hate me that much? What had I done? And who was he, this Emperor, I mean? Thank goodness it was Friday. I’d have the whole weekend to figure it out. If I could just do that, perhaps I’d be able to put things right – apologise or something. I was halfway through dialling Alex’s number, to see if he’d got any ideas, when I realised that I didn’t really want my best friend to know about it. So I started running through a mental list of suspects, beginning with the obvious one – beginning with Callum Corcoran.

  ‘You’re not still on that computer, are you?’

  ‘Mum! You made me jump.’ What was that she’d always said about knocking first?

  ‘What are you up to anyway?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, doing my best to create a human wall between Mum and the screen.

  ‘Oh come off it. I know you’ve been chatting to your girlfriend. Two more minutes max and then bed.’

  I stabbed hastily at the keyboard. ‘It’s OK, Mum, I’ve logged off.’

  ‘I can just about remember what it’s like, you know,’ she said dreamily. ‘Your first love’s one of the most magical times of your life. Make sure you enjoy it.’ Her tight embrace almost squeezed the life out of me. ‘Sleep well, Sammy.’

  Some hope!

  12.47 a.m.

  ‘Come on, Britney, think. You must have seen something. We re there two of them? Did they say anything about me?’

  Tracy Beaker and Miss Piggy were sleeping peacefully. Only Britney seemed to appreciate the full gravity of the situation. She was making that funny growling noise and looked every bit as wide-awake as I was.

  ‘Shhh, you’ll wake Mum.’

  I held her close, enjoying the comforting bundle of warmth against my ancient Chief Wiggum pyjamas.

  ‘OK, here’s the way I see it. Callum Corcoran might just about be able to animate a guy blowing his brains out, but could he really manage a dancing chicken? OK, so maybe Animal did it for him. No, that doesn’t sound right. Then how about Gaz Lulham?’

  Britney wasn’t giving anything away.

  ‘Wait a minute, hear me out. When we did that reproduction project, Gaz made a really funny film about a sperm with a hand grenade. He could easily have done it . . . Yeah, but Gaz and I were at nursery together. I know he never talks to me at school, but he always nods and grunts if I pass him in town and he’s not with his mates.’

  Britney didn’t look at all impressed with my powers of deduction.

  ‘Well, have you got any better ideas? Who is this Emperor . . . and what about Ollyg78? If I could only identify them, I might be able to come up with a plan. What am I going to do, Britney? What am I going to do?’

  Her beady eyes met mine. She didn’t need to say anything, it was obvious what she was thinking: You know what to do, Sam. It’s what you’ve been planning all along. I mean, who’s the chicken here, you or me?

  The Dad Phone felt like a block of ice against my heart. I slipped it from my pyjama pocket and went straight to the address book – that way I didn’t have time to chicken out. And there it was: The Emperor’s number. My thumb twitched like a Gameboy addict’s, and it took all my concentration to bring it down on the keypad. ‘OK, Britney, this is it.’

  I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

  Oh no . . . oh no . . . it couldn’t be, could it?

  It was past midnight. I was expecting to go straight through to voicemail. All I’d wanted was to listen to his answerphone message. Fear turned to abject horror the moment I realised that somebody was actually on the other end. ‘Hello,’ I whispered. ‘Hello . . . hello, who is that please?’

  Silence, punctuated only by the sound of heavy breathing.

  ‘Please,’ I said, squeezing Britney even tighter, ‘just tell me wh
o you are and . . . and what you want from me.’

  First a crackle, next a hiss, followed by a familiar voice – it sounded just like the posh newsreader guy that Dad used to listen to when Mum had forgotten to turn on Radio One. But it wasn’t The Emperor.

  ‘And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency . . .’

  ‘Look, this isn’t funny,’ I shouted. ‘Who are you and why are you doing this?’

  ‘Biscay: North-easterly four or five, becoming variable three in . . . ’

  ‘Who are you?’

  At least now we knew who the chicken was. I couldn’t stop myself; the tears were cascading down my cheeks and making craters in the sawdust. Dad would have been so ashamed of me. He was always going on about ‘the boy who cried’.

  The light from the lamppost at the bottom of the garden had given the inside of the shed an otherworldly glow. If I was about to be abducted by aliens, they couldn’t have picked a more perfect moment.

  ‘Shannon: variable four. Moderate, becoming rough later . . .’

  MONDAY

  (WEEK TWO)

  8.25 a.m.

  Mum launched into her usual ‘friends of the earth’ monologue the moment her foot hit the accelerator. I caught the occasional word or three, ‘torrential rain in the middle of June . . . when is a politician going to have the balls to . . . bloody four-by-fours . . . have these people never heard about carbon footprints?’ but I was much too wrapped up in my own problems to worry about global catastrophes.

  It had been the worst weekend since we drove Dad to the airport. I didn’t dare go into town in case I ran into someone from school, I didn’t dare go online for pretty much the exact same reason, and Alex was at Center Parcs with his dad’s new girlfriend, so I spent the whole time on the sofa, watching repeats of Friends and failing miserably in my desperate attempts to identify The Emperor.